


Gun Metal

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Domestic Violence, M/M, Russian Roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Russian Roulette they say there are no winners. But Chester curled up in the shower cubicle and Brad smirking to himself in the mirror – who says nobody wins?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gun Metal

The rules of Russian Roulette are:

You use a revolver, only a revolver. The regular, six cylinder kind. You place a single round into a chamber of the revolver and spin the cylinder, accepting a one in six chance of death. The odds of success are just short of eighty four percent. Chester isn’t sure what that means, or what success you could possibly have in this game.

Usually, when you spin the cylinder, the weight of the bullet makes the full cylinder rest at the bottom, which increases the chance of the round being a blank. So you have to spin the cylinder with the gun upside down. That way, the bullet lands where it lands, and there’s no bias in the shot.

Brad assures him they’re not playing Russian Roulette. The rules of his game are:

Shut the fuck up, hold still, or you’ll end up with your brains against the wall for sure.

Some people, when they play, they wear their best suit on the off chance that they don’t get an empty chamber. No matter how desperate you are, nobody wants to go out looking like crap.

How this all comes about is Chester walks into the bedroom and there’s Brad, sitting in his best jeans and no shirt, pistol to his head. From where Chester is standing it looks fake, but then Brad cocks it, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine.

Brad points the gun at him, says “Want to play a game?”

Where the gun came from, Chester has no idea. But, when Brad gets to his feet and presses the gun against Chester’s head, he can tell it’s pretty new. It smells like hot metal, death and power. “What’s going on? What’s with the gun?”

It’s a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda with a six inch barrel, says Brad as if that means anything at all to Chester. Thank you very much Samuel Colt for putting him in this situation. Some people are too smart. Chester wonders what would have happened if Colt had gone to sea and not gotten bored. What would have happened if he’d gotten his rocks off with some sea wench rather than inventing a quicker firing gun?

Brad leers, presses the gun harder against Chester’s forehead and says “Get undressed.”

There are certain things you can argue with – a well aimed punch, a cruel word, a swift kick. A loaded gun is not one of those things. With shaking hands Chester unfastens his belt, not moving his head at all in case Brad’s finger slips, squeezes the pistol and paints the wall with his brain and spit and snot and teeth.

Brad pulls the gun back enough to allow Chester room to pull his shirt off over his head, dumping it on the floor beside his discarded jeans and boxers. But then it’s back again, steady and hard against his skin. “Wh-what do you want me to do?” Chester stammers.

“Stay still. Or I’ll shoot you.”

This is much easier said than done. Just try it, try standing still with a loaded gun against your head. The man in front of him isn’t Brad. This isn’t his lover. This is a twisted maniac with a terrifying, Zen-like calm that makes Chester sick to his stomach.

Brad snaps open the cylinder and shows Chester the single bullet in the first chamber. Snapping it shut again he spins the cylinder, turning the gun upside down. Then he presses it to Chester’s temple with a smirk. “What would you do to live?” He says.

This is all about sex and, usually, Chester would already be hard but a live bullet isn’t a libido booster. And Chester says “Just kill me.”

“No,” Brad smirks, “I want to fuck you first.”

“Then fuck me. I-I’ll do anything. I-I’ll be anything you want me to be. Just...” just don’t pull the trigger, he screams in his head, don’t do this to me.

Brad pulls back the hammer and cocks the gun, squeezes the trigger.

The sound of a hammer slamming into the empty chamber of the gun against your temple is the sound of relief. It sounds like the all clear after an air raid. Or the wail of sirens after an accident. It’s all about – you’re safe, you’re alive, you’re so fucking lucky.

But it’s still all Chester can do not to piss himself.

“Now,” Brad says, “Did you think I was kidding? Get on the bed.”

Chester goes to say something but his eyes are locked on the gun and he shuffles over to the bed submissively climbing onto it and sitting with his knees clamped together and his hands fidgeting in his lap. Brad undresses and stalks over to him, spinning the cylinder idly. “Are you scared?”

Yes. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

No. “Yes.”

Then the gun is under his chin. And Brad, he’s pulling the trigger. There’s a hollow click, and Chester almost faints. He’s pushed over onto the bed before he can react, though, and Brad snaps, “Get on all fours.”

Chester obeys, letting Brad knock his legs open, spreading them further apart. He thinks about how he’ll be found if Brad hits the money shot with the gun. The forensic scientists will be looking at his cold, sexed out, lifeless body and shaking their heads and making cracks about faggots and how they’re surprised it wasn’t STD’s that killed him first.

There’s lube, that much he knows, because when Brad slams into his unprepared body it’s cold and easy. But it hurts so much. He moans lowly, squeezing his eyes shut. He can feel the barrel of the gun pressing against the back of his head as Brad buries himself up to the hilt in his body.

He’s not sure what hurts more – the burn, or the pressure of the gun.

Or maybe it’s the betrayal that tastes like acid on his tongue.

“Brad please,” he murmurs, “please don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Brad asks, jerking his hips hard and cocking the gun. He moans lowly and pulls out, slamming back in with a low moan, “fuck,” he hisses through his teeth, “you feel so good.”

Chester drops his head to hang between his arms, tears on his cheeks. It’s not so much the pain, god knows he’s felt worse, it’s the fear. Brad reaches around him and wraps a hand around Chester’s limp dick, groaning and stroking him until he unwillingly grows hard. “Don’t you like this, baby?” Brad asks, building a steady, rhythm of rough thrusts.

When he gets no response he hits the back of Chester’s head with the barrel of the gun, snapping “Aren’t you...ah...enjoying yourself?”

The answer is no, of course, but he can’t say that so he moans and swallows down a sob. Brad’s breathing gets heavier and his grip on Chester’s cock tightens briefly before he moans loudly as he reaches his climax. The gun slips from his hand and falls to the bed.

Brad pulls out with a groan and slaps Chester’s ass hard.

The rule of Brad’s game is – anything goes.

So Chester grabs the gun and gets off the bed, standing shakily. Naked and scared he spins the cylinder and points the gun at Brad who just watches him with a guarded expression. “What?” He asks with a grin, “You gonna shoot me?”

Chester cocks the gun.

“Go on then. Shoot me.”

Chester squeezes the trigger.

And the hammer lands in an empty chamber.

And it sounds like failure, disappointment and loss. It sounds like – another day of being beaten down. It sounds like Brad stalking towards him and taking the gun from his loose fingers and whispering “Go take a shower.”

It sounds like Chester’s heavy, awkward steps towards the bathroom. The hiss and spray of the shower, and the angry, choked out sobs.

Back in the bedroom, Brad snaps open the cylinder and pulls out the bullet. He puts it back in the box with the others and closes it. Traces his fingers over the words ‘Blank Cartridges’. Dumps it in the drawer with the gun and smiles, proud of himself.

In Russian Roulette they say there are no winners. But Chester curled up in the shower cubicle and Brad smirking to himself in the mirror – who says nobody wins?


End file.
